


Here

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Bodyswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 11:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14789546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: He reads what he'd said again.I always wish I was part of Manchester United. It's going to be like coming home.





	Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> Shawwon, my luff. I know this goes no way to drawing you out of your miserie cave but I hope it helps a lil. <333

 

 

David wakes up in Manchester.

It isn't a hotel room. Isn't neat enough – a drawer's pulled open, there're ties and socks strewn across the rug. Everything feels lived in, familiar, like he knew this place. Scuff marks on the wallpaper like someone's been booting a dirty ball around. It reminds him of the last time he'd gone over to Gary's, David thinks, kicked things around and Gary had asked him to pay for the paint –

He stops. The socks on the floor have the letters M. U. F. C. on them.

Things start to broach David's senses slowly, like walking through a haze slowly getting accustomed to moving around. The framed Ugly XI newspaper they'd bought for his birthday leaning on top of the drawer. Some of the ties look like the ones Becks had loaned him that he'd never given back. Christ, there's even the coffee machine at the far end of the room that he wouldn't stop ribbing Gary about. _Don't be lazy and just go to the kitchen, you mug._

Gary would snort. _I can't find my spoons even when I'm fucking awake, Becks, how do I find coffee?_

And then they would laugh, and then when David woke up the next day there'd always be a cup of coffee waiting for him on the bedside table.

Okay. Okay. Gary's house. He's been in here a million times; it's not strange to be back. He knows he's supposed to be in Manchester, at least, playing for Milan tonight, so maybe all that happened was that he bumped into Gary and they went home. Came home. Gary always got up earlier than him, so maybe he's sat in the living room yelling at the press secretary again. Yes. This makes sense. His head feels light, so maybe he'd been drinking and that's why he can't remember anything. Maybe. Yes. Right.

He looks over at the bedside table. There's no cup of coffee there.

Maybe –

Maybe he forgot. It's been seven years, fucking hell. Seven years and Gary still hasn't gotten round to cleaning his bloody walls.

David pulls himself out of bed, gingerly. Leans over and starts folding the sheets. Turns the edge of the blankets down. Fluffs the pillows. _I save so much on housekeeping_ , Gary used to say, looking at him, fond.

Usually cleaning up would make him feel better, but there's still something wrong – not just the headache, everything seems off-kilter. His nose feels odd. His hands. Even the way he moves feels different, though not uncomfortable. It's like watching himself do an impression of someone he knew well enough to mimic. _Guess who I am?_

It hits him all at once. Who he's doing. Where he is. Why there isn't any noise coming from outside. He drops the clothes and stumbles to the bathroom, looks at the hands that he places on the edge of the sink, shaking. Looks up.

"Fuck," says Gary Neville.

 

 

 

 

He goes out to the living room. Very little has changed. Gary's got a new sofa and has finally gotten around to putting up his shirt collection, which he probably had time to do when he was out injured. David sees himself besides Scholesy and Butty, red shirt, white letters. He'd had an awful haircut.

There are a few magazines on the table, yesterday's _Times_ and _Evening News._ Both are flipped to the sports pages. Both are covering the game tonight, running the two or three interviews where he'd probably embarrassed himself saying too much. He reads what he'd said again. _I always wish I was part of Manchester United. I always want them to do well and be successful because the club still means so much to me. It's going to be like coming home._

He reads it out loud, in Gary's voice. It feels like he's betraying something.

There's a phone lying on the coffee table. David picks it up, weighs it in his palm. Gary hasn't called yet, so either he hasn't realised – unlikely at best – or he's enjoying being handsome for once in his life. _Look at me, Becks, I'm a fucking underwear model now._ That's what he'd say, anyway.

David wishes he didn't know him so well. Still.

They'd only met a few times after he left. Dinners, lunch when Gary did his ankle in. They caught up mostly on football; sometimes Gary would make a joke about David's other life and then cackle, in that almost screechy-way of his. David would ask how Sir Alex, Scholesy, Giggsy were, and Gary would shrug his shoulders – okay. Sometimes they got drunk and David would push Gary up against the wall of his hotel, fingers fumbling desperately at Gary's buttons while Gary held his breath and said nothing.

The air is unmoving in the room. David picks up the phone and scrolls through contacts until he finds Scholesy's. Scholesy picks up on the first ring.

"Becks?"

"Gary's already called, then," David says, mouth dry. Of course he'd call Scholesy first.

"While ago, yeah." Somehow David knows Scholesy's smirking even if he can't see him. "God, you sound – weird. How do you two fuck things up so often?"

"We don't fuck things up – "

"Mm. Yeah, you do. Anyway. No, he doesn't know what's going on. No, this hasn't happened before. No, there isn't a cure."

"How do you know?"

Scholesy scoffs. "I looked it up, _David_. Apparently you just… wait till you get back to normal, or summat."

"I've a game tonight."

"We all do."

"I should call Gaz."

"You think?"

David has known Scholesy too long to let the acerbity fool him. It's actually almost comforting. "See you tonight, then," he says.

"I guess," Scholesy says. And then, "Becks?"

"Yeah?"

There's a beat. "Never mind," Scholesy says eventually, and puts down the phone before David can register the way his voice had stilled.

 

 

 

 

Gary isn't answering David's mobile phone, so David has to ring up the hotel instead. It's the first time he's thought about the fact that he was part of a different team last night. He dearly hopes that Gary's not gone around doing stupid things in front of the Italians he'd worked so bloody hard to fit in with.

Finally Gary's – David's – voice comes on the line. "Hello," he says, clearing his throat. Hotel phones don't have caller ID, and anyway Gary wouldn't recognise his own number if he saw it. His approximation of David's inflection is almost perfect. David's sat through too many radio and television interviews to count, but hearing his own voice like this still throws him off.

"Gary," he says, laughs. "Shit."

"You think it's funny," Gary retorts immediately. "I sound like a fucking helium balloon."

This makes David laugh even harder, although he isn't sure whether it's out of humour or just pure relief. Gary isn't angry. Gary's still Gary, even though he sounds like a fucking helium balloon now.

"I can't believe how big your nose is."

"Fuck off."

"And your house, have you cleaned ever?"

"Not really. Not since – " he coughs. The pause hits David too hard; he realises, suddenly, how strange talking to Gary like this was.

 "Eh, Gaz," he says. "What are we going to do about tonight?"

Another beat. David can imagine Gary sat on the edge of the hotel bed, brow furrowed, frown across his face that stretches into almost a grin. Thinks how strange his face must look with Gary's expressions. Gary's mannerisms. Wonders what Gary's reply will be, even though he already knows the answer.

"We play," Gary says. Like that's all there is.

 

 

 

 

He finishes packing up Gary's bedroom and moves to the rest of the house. Sweeps the kitchen, checks for the spoons just in case. Stacks the magazines and folds the papers. It's almost two so he digs out some pasta and makes bolognaise. The cooking settles him down, because it's just following steps without having to know what he's doing. It's from Tesco so it isn't great bolognaise. Pirlo would probably have something to say about that.

He puts it all on a plate and drapes himself in front of the telly. Gary's added new channels since – La Liga and MLS and Serie A – he settles on _Escape to the Country_ on the Beeb. Pretty houses for an hour. It's nice to be back in England, he thinks absently, all this inane meaninglessness, just grass and fields that stretch for miles.

At three he remembers to call Gary's mum. Gary and his stupid fucking superstitions. He's going to forget one of them inevitably and they're going to lose.

"We're going to lose," he says aloud, amused.

Gary's mum is as pleasant as he always knew her. "Go and stuff 'em," she says, and he says "thanks, ma," and he thinks of when they were still growing up, parents taking turns to drive them to games, standing together under the sun yelling encouragement.

 _Drink_ , Scholesy texts him at four, so David grabs the keys from where Gary always puts them near the door and drives to town in his stupid fucking Honda.

Scholesy's sitting at a table in the café that looks out onto the street. David slides up a chair. From the lack of reaction amongst the other patrons they must do this often. "Every game," Scholesy says, catching David's expression. "Just tea, like."

"There're too many things he does before every game," David complains.

"Tubigrip," Scholesy rattles automatically. "Scissors. Programme – "

"Scholesy." David grins at him. His cheeks are hot. "I know."

"Oh." Scholesy chokes out a laugh. "Of course."

They're quiet for a while. The tea comes. David drinks and feels it settle in his stomach, a warm blanket. The sun – god, when's there ever been sun in Manchester – glints off the cobblestones outside. The Hacienda used to be around here somewhere, he thinks, if this is near Castlefield. He and Giggsy and Butty would have to drag the rest kicking and screaming there. Scholesy probably never went at all, actually.

Scholesy puts his cup down. It tinkles in the saucer.

Everything's ceramic. Breakable. It annoys him, all of a sudden.

"We should get going soon," Scholesy says.

"Yeah?"

"Gaffer and that." There's a smirk on Scholesy's face without humour. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

David shifts in his seat. The gaffer's team talks, the wooden-panelled dressing room. The red gates just outside the tunnel. The corridors, pale, flat white, the panel that has that picture of all of them and some ridiculous statistic – everything, he misses everything, he misses without a right to.

"We can take Gaz's car," is what he says. "He's paying for the petrol, anyhow."

 

 

 

 

Old Trafford.

Two, three years after leaving he couldn't watch anything that went on inside, let alone come back. There was the England game but it was easy to create a gap in his brain; Manchester had never been England.

He parks and they get out, well early to avoid the autograph-hunters that have already begun gathering at the railings. Scholesy mutters something choice under his breath at the merchandise men that David is probably better off missing. Then they're through the gates, right down the corridor, people smiling and nodding at him as he goes.

"Don't smile back," Scholesy says, like it's funny. "You know how he gets on match days."

"It's just – " he waves a hand.

"I know."

They come into the dressing room and some of them are already there, no one he's played with. It's changed since he was last year with the red shirts on the walls.  Only three remain the same. Scholesy walks over to his corner and David instinctively starts to follow him, only to pause and turn around.

Gary always sat next to the keeper. David slides onto the bench, conscious of the _G. Neville_ and _2_ that hang above his head, slightly misaligned. He doesn't want to look at it. He's irrationally afraid that something will happen if he does, like it'll vanish and he'll wake up from this dream, or it'll burst into flames.

He's Gary Neville. He's captain of Manchester United Football Club. Of course it's a dream. It's his, isn't it.

There's always been this odd limbo before a game. You learn a lot about people just watching what they do in the space; playing music, talking to someone else, staring across the room unseeing. David does what he remembers Gary doing. He finds the Tubigrip – D width, Gary always wanted it to be – and a pair of normal scissors, never medical scissors because Gary found those weird. He sticks on two lengths of tape. Already he's wearing the white underwear Gary had to wear each game. Every single one of these actions tells him something he doesn't want to think about now.

 

 

 

 

He walks out and it's a cauldron.

It's a roar – it's walls of people – it's European Nights, Baby – it's the way a stadium always looks different when the sky is dark and the lights are on, like the grass is somehow greener – it's the way a stadium always looks the same.

They're singing, _one David Beckham, there's only one David Beckham._

Across the pitch he sees himself, Gary, raising a hand to acknowledge the fans. Words flounder in his throat, a bit. He watches himself in slow motion. His face shining. A shy, boyish grin that doesn't end. Gary's playing it to perfection and for a moment David isn't sure what to make of it.

He thinks he ought to go and talk to him, but Meulensteen is calling him back. David runs past the cones on the pitch one-two-one-two.

 

 

 

 

When he can't delay it anymore he reaches up and takes the shirt. It's soft, silkier than he would have thought, and all red but for the black strip in the centre of the chest. Red. Primary colour. First colour. He brushes the crest with his thumb, swallowing. Christ. It doesn't feel right, but to wear this again –

He puts it on. Nothing happens, even though he almost thought something would.

Giggsy comes in and the first thing he says is "ay, Gaz, looking forward to seeing Becks again?" and it's so stupid and typical that David laughs with everyone else. He mumbles something non-committal about looking forward to beating him, not knowing how else to respond.

The gaffer comes in and the first thing he says is "Gary, you're starting tonight." The way he says it is like how they used to talk, friendly, almost fatherly, before the commercials and the boot. David feels a flash of – doesn't know what – it curls into him hot, like a fresh burn.

He takes the armband and pulls it onto his bicep. The gaffer speaks with the same intensity that David had left him with, the light of the room glinting off his glasses. "You're Manchester United," he says. "Play like you know that."

 

 

 

  

I don't want this to be over, he finds himself thinking after the third goal. A brilliant, beautiful pass by Scholesy to Park to the back of the net. He hasn't played anyone but Scholesy before and still. He hasn't been playing very well and still. It's like what Gary used to say, when they were walking around Carrington and they'd watch academy players close to tears at a loss. Gary would always walk up to them and put his hand on their shoulders. _Look down,_ he'd tell them. _Look at your shirt. See the badge? That's your team. You're not having a bad day. You're doing all right._

 

 

Gary gets a standing ovation as he comes on. The announcer screeches his name in gleeful delight. David looks up at the stands, barely able to breathe.

 

 

 

 

United win 4-0 – _we_ win 4-0 – and Gary walks slowly off the pitch, stopping to shake Scholesy's hand, probably apologising for the ridiculous tackle he'd made. Shakes Rio's hand, Rooney's. Now they're singing _Fergie sign him up, Fergie Fergie sign him up_. David's on the bench in a jacket and he stands.

Gary meets his eye. Comes towards him, uncertain. David is the one who reaches out first. Presses his palms against Gary's, locks their fingers. It's like looking into a mirror except it isn't. There are little things Gary does that David notices, and it must be the other way round as well.

"You're looking well," Gary says, and David doesn't laugh. Can't bring himself to. Instead he lets go of one hand and pulls Gary into a hug. Feels Gary's arm circle around his waist and settle there, like pebbles on a riverbed. Gary's cheek against his.

 

 

 

 

They drive home.

Gary's got the green and gold scarf around his neck still. "Fuck the Glazers," he quirks a lip up when he catches David looking at him.

"The press are gonna have a field day with that."

"It's not the press that matters."

_One David Beckham, there's only one David Beckham._

Manchester falls away behind them. The roads are bathed in the muted orange glow of streetlamps.

Neither of them are drunk, but they lurch into each other at the front door, David fumbling with the keys while Gary mutters for him to hurry up. It feels like they're twenty-five and back from a late night out, not thirty-five and too old for this shit. Gary walks over to the fridge and grabs a can of beer, tosses another one to David. They drink. Gary looks at him.

"Are you staying?" he asks.

David smiles. Swallows. "Yeah," he says.

"You sure?" Gary asks, and if he were anyone else there might have been an edge to the question, but it's only Gary, who tilts his head to the side. "I'm not going to fuck you while you're looking like this."

That draws a laugh. "What, not handsome enough for you?"

"Rather go fuck myself, as is."

He stops talking. Suddenly it isn't funny.

David puts his can of beer down and pads silently to the bedroom. Gary follows him. They lie on top of the sheets, staring at the ceiling.

"D'you think we'll go back to normal?" David asks.

"Dunno." Gary shrugs. "Hope not. Like having abs."

David laughs. "Going back," he says without prompting, something stuck in his throat, "leading the guys out, that was."

"Yeah."

"I wonder why it happened."

"Are you happy?"

David turns his head. Gary's watching him with dark eyes.

"I looked down at my shirt," David says. "It wasn't a bad day."

There's a long pause that stretches out between them, but it isn't unpleasant, or sad. Just there. David finds himself drifting off. Finds himself thinking about the game again, the floodlights, the ovation. He or Gary or whatever had only come on as a substitute. He's thirty five and getting slow. No more running down the wing or dazzling free kicks. Rooney was king, now, and the fans had only stood up for sentiment.

Then Gary says, "I watched your interview."

"What?"

"That one you did. About wishing you were part of United."

"Oh." David remembers reading it in one of the papers on Gary's coffee table. _It's like coming home._ He blinks.

"I've always got next week." Gary shrugs, looking down. "Maybe."

"Gaz – "

He cuts himself short. _Thank you_ wouldn't be right, or enough, or matter, anyway.

Gary grins at him.

"Shut the fuck up, Becks," he says kindly.

 

 

 

 

It's late in the morning when David wakes up. The sheets are rumpled and the side of the bed where Gary had been is empty, though warm. David reaches a hand to his face. Feels stubble.

"Going to miss the nose, aren't you?"

Gary's stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms folded. He's wearing one of those t-shirts from the nineties, still three times too big for him and hanging off his bony shoulders. David saw this face in the mirror yesterday but he hasn't seen it for a long time. Sharper, now, the angles, more tired. The scummy moustache he'd started after like a _fuck you_ and had just eventually kept. It's the way a stadium looks different; it's the way a stadium looks the same.

"Did you make breakfast?"

"I was hoping you would. Haven't you been taking all those fancy cooking lessons?"

"I make a great milk and cereal."

Gary laughs and turns and David watches him walk down the corridor. For a moment, he thinks of one of Gary's stupid superstitions, the one where he had to be behind Gary as they file out. He watches him and thinks of following Gary down the player's tunnel at Old Trafford. The pinprick of light at the end. It's Saturday afternoon, and the letters on Gary's back are ever so slightly misaligned.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- I copped out... [Raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/) asked me to use Allentown lyrics for the title and I was like MM YEH IT KINDA WORKS ACTUALLY but then 'Well We're Living' didn't feel quite right as a Title so I just...used...here....rolls IM SORRY  
> \- In an interview or book or something Gary mentioned they'd all swapped shirts in Becks's last season (where he really did have the awful haircut)  
> \- Newspapers: [](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/players/david-beckham/7415558/Man-Utd-v-AC-Milan-David-Beckham-surrenders-old-kingdom-to-Wayne-Rooney.html) [](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/manchester-united/7412248/Manchester-United-v-AC-Milan-David-Beckham-coming-home-in-Champions-League-clash-at-Old-Trafford.html) [](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/players/david-beckham/7136040/AC-Milans-David-Beckham-ready-to-face-Manchester-United-after-12-year-anguish.html) [](http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/europe/8558023.stm)  
> \- Shut up, I did not actually check the [BBC iPlayer schedule](https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer) to see what was on at 2pm on a weekday  
> \- EVERY SINGLE ONE OF GARY'S SUPERSTITIONS MENTIONED IN THIS IS LEGIT, HE'S A DUMB BOY. One of his interviews was like "tubigrip. D Width. Not C. Not E. D." ok gaz we get it  
> \- He also used to sit on the toilet for 15 minutes and read the matchday programme but there is no way to make that poetic.  
> \- Scheville used to have drinks before games, Giggle?? would have drinks after  
> \- René Meulensteen used to be our first team coach, he was so good, come back René ;-----;  
> \- I always tell the young players here if you look down at your shirt and see a Manchester United badge, you’re not having a bad day. You’re doing all right. - Why Does Gary Make Me Want To Vore Myself  
> \- [LOOK AT THE RECEPTION BECKS GOT!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7eoQ4pNK8Y) UGHHHHHHHHHH  
> \- Hey, wanna cry? Watch Becks's [post match interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z0jv9PNS8Io)  
> \- [Scholesy handshake](http://www2.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/David+Beckham+Paul+Scholes+Manchester+United+__huwej-L5Ul.jpg)... [Rio handshake](http://www3.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/David+Beckham+Rio+Ferdinand+Manchester+United+DuVuVoYEJlhl.jpg)...  
> \- and, finallly, the [GAYEST](https://talksport.com/sites/default/files/tscouk_old_image/%282010%29%2097617601.jpg) [SHIT](https://c1.staticflickr.com/3/2791/4425605747_78a66b2a2a.jpg)  
> \- [Fuk the Glazerssssss](https://secure.i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01595/david-beckham_1595321c.jpg)  
> \- Gazza broke his ankle and was on/off out from 07-09... and by 2010 he wasn't rly playing a lot of games, but he still had this [FINE ASS cross](https://youtu.be/cX81nHd1O0Y?t=2m31s) and he was keptin ;--;
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3


End file.
